Final Flight (6 page)

He had spent too many years in that position.
“We must be ready when the ship enters port, whenever
that is.”

“We’ll be ready, Excellency. We are
monitoring the commercial hotels and airports at
various possible ports of call. The longer the ship
is at sea, the greater the likelihood that many
wives will come from America to visit their husbands when
the ship enters port. Advance hotel and airline
reservations will give us ample warning.”

“We must not fail, Qazi. We cannot fail.”
El Hakim’s voice was soft, yet hard, like a
thin layer of sand over desert stone.

“I understand, Excellency.”

“The stakes are too high to allow my genuine
personal affection for you to have any bearing on my
decisions.”

It was Qazi’s turn to clench his teeth and
nod. “Keep me advised of the state of your
preparations.” El Hakim rose and left the
apartment, leaving the door open behind him.

“HOW MUCH LONGER before we go into port?”

Jake was still in his flight suit and stared at the
admiral, Cowboy Parker. They were seated in the
admiral’s stateroom on the 0-3 level,
immediately below the flight deck.

“I don’t know.” As usual, Cowboy’s
angular face registered no emotion.

In his mid-forties, he had been identified
years earlier as one of the finest young officers in the
navy and had been sent to nuclear-power school after his
tour as commanding officer of an A-6 squadron.
He had served two years as executive officer
of a nuclear-powered carrier, then as commanding officer of a
fleet oiler. When he finished his tour as commanding
officer of the Nimitz, he had been promoted to rear
admiral.

In spite of that, Jake thought, his ears still stuck
out too much.

“We can’t keep flying around the clock like this.
We’ve just lost one plane, and if we keep it
up, we’re going to lose more. These men have been working
like slaves.”

Cowboy sighed. “I know that, Jake.”

“If we can’t go into port, at least let’s
pull off a couple hundred miles, say down
south of Cyprus where we can get some sea room, and
stand down at five- or ten-minute alert. It’s
keeping airplanes aloft around the clock that’s
wearing these guys down to nothing.”

“Jake, I don’t have that option. You know that! As
soon as I get that authority, we’ll go down
there.”

Grafton stood up and began pacing the little
room. “Well, maybe we can drop our nighttime
flights to just the E-2, a tanker, and a couple
fighters. Maybe use the Hornets as fighters
during the day and the Tomcats at night. Keep the
A-6’s in five-minute alert status at
night, armed for bear.”

“Sit down, Jake.”

Jake eyed Cowboy. They had served together during
the Vietnam War in an A-6 squadron
aboard the Shilo and had remained good friends
ever since.

When Cowboy had had his tour commanding an A-6
squadron in the late seventies, Jake had been
his assistant maintenance officer.

“Sit down. That’s an order.” Jake sat.

“This is like Vietnam, isn’t it?”

Jake nodded. “Yep,” he said at last. “Just
another set of damn fools pulling the strings. And
we’re grinding people into hamburger. It’s
frustrating.”

The telephone rang. Cowboy picked up the
receiver. “Admiral Parker.”

He listened for a moment or two, grunted
twice, then hung up.

The two men sat in silence. A plane slammed
into the flight deck above their heads and the room
vibrated slightly as it went to full power.

Then the engines came back to idle and faded into the
background noise.

A minute later another one hit the deck. On
the television in the corner the landing planes were
depicted in a silent show filmed from a camera high
on the island and one buried in the deck, aimed up the
glide slope. The picture alternated between the
two. The only audio was the very real sound
of the planes smashing into the steel over their heads.
Jake massaged his forehead and ran his fingers
straight back through what was left of his hair.

“You don’t look very well,” Parker said.

“Hell of a headache.”

“The head quack tells me you’re over a month
late getting your annual flight physical.”

“Yeah. He’s been after me.”

“Go get the physical.”

“Yes sir.”

“What do you think went wrong with that plane tonight?”

“Don’t know. My guess is a malfunction in
the oxygen system, but we may never know. Depends
on how much wreckage that destroyer pulls out.”

“They haven’t found much.” Parker jerked his thumb
at the phone. “Just a few pieces floating. Most
of it went to the bottom.”

“Did they find the bodies?” A postmortem
on the bodies might reveal an oxygen
malfunction.

“Nope.” Cowboy searched the younger man’s
face. “What are you going to do now?” Jake knew
he was referring to the leadership problem.

“Remember the last month of the war in Vietnam,
after I was shot down?

Camparelli hung a helmet in the ready room
and said anyone who couldn’t hack the program could
throw his wings into it.”

“I remember.”

“I’m going to hang up a helmet.”

“As I recall, no one quit.”

“Yeah. That’s why Camparelli did it. He was
smart. I’m going to give the helmet a try, but with
my luck I’ll have a dozen crews quit on me.

Cowboy laughed. “Your luck will hold, Cool
Hand. Keep rolling the dice.” He stood up.
“I better get back to flag plot.” That
space, a part of the combat decision center, depicted
the task group’s tactical situation to the admiral
on computerized presentations. It was his battle
station. “They get nervous if I’m gone too long.
Hell, I get nervous if I’m gone over ten
minutes.” He paused at the door and turned
back toward Jake. “If it’ll make you feel
better, I have a “Nixon in “88′ T-shirt
I can let you steal.”

“It may come to that.”

Admiral Parker stuck out his hand and Jake
pumped it.

- When Jake entered the air wing office,
Chief Harry Shipman was sitting at his desk.

“Heard we lost one.

“Yeah. Call Mister Cohen and ask him to come
to the office.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Jake walked between the desks and entered his office.
For some reason known only to the ship’s architect,
he had a sink in his small office.

He took three aspirin from a bottle in the
desk drawer and washed them down by drinking from the sink
tap. Then he soaked a washcloth in cold water,
raked the papers away from the middle of the desk, sat
in his chair and tilted it as he arranged his legs on
the desk. He draped the wet cloth over his forehead
and eyes.

He tried not to think about Jelly Dolan and
Boomer Bronsky. His office was on the 0-3
deck, immediately beneath the flight deck, so he could hear
the sounds of aircraft being moved about his head. He
tried to identify each sound.

He had just drifted off to sleep when someone
knocked on the door.

“Come in.” He threw the washcloth in the sink.
He felt better.

Lieutenant Commander William Cohen
and Chief Shipman entered and sat in the two empty
chairs. Cohen was the air wing aircraft maintenance
officer. Shipman worked for him.

“Who went in?” Cohen asked.

“Dolan and Bronsky. They were flying my wing.
I didn’t see them eject, and the angel and the
destroyer haven’t found them. They passed out in the
cockpit and the plane nosed over.

“Oxygen problem?”

“Probably, but who knows? Maybe the accident
investigation will tell us. “Jake removed his feet
from his desk and sat upright in his chair.

“How well are the squadrons maintaining the
planes?” Jake asked this question looking at Cohen.

“Availability is very good. Only three
planes down awaiting parts, one F-14 and two
A-6’s. F-18’s are doing fine. That
F-18 is one hell of a fine airplane
to maintain.” Cohen had started in the navy as an
enlisted man and received his commission while a first
class petty officer, Jake knew. After
twenty-two years in the navy Will Cohen knew
aircraft maintenance better than he knew his children.

“Are the squadrons taking shortcuts to keep the
availability up?” Jake found his
cigarettes and set fire to one.

“I don’t think so.” Cohen draped one leg
over the other and laced his fingers behind his head. “If
they are, I haven’t seen it.”

“We’re going to find out,” Jake told them.
“Will, I want you to check the maintenance records
on every airplane on this ship. Are the squadrons
missing or delaying scheduled inspections? Are they
really fixing gripes or merely signing them off?
Look for repeat gripes signed off as “could not
find” or “could not duplicate.” You know what I
want.”

“Yes sir.”

“Chief, I want you to check their compliance with
proper maintenance procedures. Select gripes
at random and watch the troops work them off.

See if the manuals are up to date and being
used. Check to ensure the supervisors are
supervising and the quality-control inspectors are
inspecting. Check their tool inventory program.”

“Aye aye, sir. Do you have a deadline on this?”

“Make progress reports from time to time. Start
with the Red Rippers, then move around at random.

Cohen flicked a piece of lint from his khaki
trousers. “CAG, this is gonna look like
we’re trying to close the barn door after the horse
has shit and left.”

“I don’t give a fuck how it looks.”
Jake put his elbows on the desk.

“The troops are tired and morale is low.
Shortcuts and sloppy work become acceptable when
you’re tired. We’re going to make everyone, from
squadron skippers to wrench-turners,
absolutely aware that the job has to be done right.
We’re going to reemphasize it. We’re going
to make sure we don’t drop a plane in the
future because of sloppy maintenance.”

“I understand.”

“I want you guys to be visible. I want
everyone to know just exactly what you’re up to. Let
it be known that I intend to burn anyone who’s
slacking off.”

Both men nodded.

“Finish your night’s sleep, then get at it.
Chief, before you go back to bed, call the squadron
duty officers and tell them I want to see all the
skippers here at 0800.”

“Yes sir.” The two men rose and left the
office, closing the door behind them. Jake
retrieved the washcloth from the sink and
rearranged his feet on the desk. In moments he was
asleep.

Jake sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in
the sick bay area. He watched the corpsmen in their
hospital pullovers moving at their usual pace,
coffee cups in one hand and a medical record or
specimen in the other. They came randomly from one of the
eight or ten little rooms and strolled the corridor
to another. The atmosphere was hushed, unhurried,
an oasis of routine and established procedure.

At last the door across from him opened and a sailor
came out tucking his shirttail into his bell
bottom jeans. Seconds later Lieutenant
Commander Bob Hartman stuck his head out and waved
at Jake.

The little room had one desk and a raised examination
table. “Good afternoon, CAG. Glad you finally paid us
a visit down here in the dungeon.”

Jake grunted. Doctor Hartman was
assigned to Jake’s staff and liked to while away
off-duty hours in the air wing office, yet whenever
anyone suggested he look at a sore throat or
toe, he told them to come to sick bay. This was his
turf.

“Strip to skivvies and socks, please,
and take a seat on the table.” As Jake hung his
khakis on a convenient hook, the doctor pored
over the notes the corpsmen had made when they ran
Jake through the routine tests.

At last he left his desk, arranged his
stethoscope in his ears, then held it against Jake’s
chest. “You failed the eye examination, you know.” The
doctor was about thirty-five, had a moderate
spare tire, and a world-class set of bushy
eyebrows. When he looked at you, all you saw of
him were the eyebrows. Then the nose and chin and all the
rest came slowly into focus.

“Please cough.” Jake hacked obediently.
“Now turn and let me listen to your back.” He
thumped vigorously. “You need to quit smoking.”

“I know.”

“How much do you smoke?”

“A pack or so a day.”

“Your lungs sound clear.” Hartman turned to the
X rays on a viewing board and studied them.
“No problem there,” he said finally and came back
to Jake. “Stand up and drop your drawers.” After the
usual indignities were over and the doctor had peered
into all of Jake’s bodily orifices, he told
him to get dressed and resumed his seat at the
desk.

“Your eyes are twenty-forty,” the doctor said as
he scribbled. — “You need glasses.”

“ok.”

He flipped through the medical file. “You’ve
gained ten pounds in the last ten years, but you’re still
well within the weight standards. Have you been having any
headaches?”

“Occasionally.”

“Probably eyestrain. The glasses will cure
that.” Doctor Hartman laid his pencil aside and
turned in his chair to face Jake. “But you’ve been
having some other vision problems.” Jake said nothing.

Hartman cleared his throat and toyed with the papers
in the medical file. “Captain, I know this is
going to be damn tough for you. It’s tough for me.
I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this, but your
flying days are over.

“Bullshit.”

“Captain, you flunked the night-vision tests.
Glasses won’t cure that.

Nothing can. Your eyes are aging and you just don’t
see well enough to fly at night.”

“Gimme some pills or shots.”

“I can give you some vitamin A that may
help. Over time.” He shrugged.

“Everyone’s vision deteriorates as they age, but
at different speeds.

Yours just happens to have started faster than most
people’s. The nicotine you have been poisoning yourself with for
twenty years may also be a factor. Sometimes it
has an adverse effect on the tissues inside the
eye.” He found an envelope on his desk and
sketched an eye. “When light stops stimulating the
eye, the tissues manufacture a chemical
called liquid purple, and this chemical increases
the sensitivity of the rods inside the eye. In your
case, either the chemical is no longer being
manufactured in sufficient quantity or the rods
are becoming insensitive… .” He droned on, his
pencil in motion. Jake thought he looked like a
flight instructor sketching lift and drag
vectors around an airfoil.